Chapter 13 - Yellow Marigolds
"Je veux l'encadrer pour la galerie" - Lucian Hoffmann
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The hospital looked smaller as I stepped back onto the sidewalk, passing the monumental bronze lions guarding the entrance of Porte des Lions. The structure rose in cream-colored stone, its lower levels marked by heavy rustication and deeply recessed blocks that gave it a severe sense of permanence. I had not visited the museum in quite some time. My personal amusements had occupied me too heavily. Je veux l’encadrer au mur
In the underground parking lot near the Louvre Museum, before leaving for Senlis. I retrieved the bag from the sedan and carried it into a public restroom to change clothes. Wearing a beige panel cap, an oversized parka, and faded blue jeans.
At 20:30, I reached the bus stop and boarded the public bus to Senlis.
Upon arriving at the Gare Routière, I walked the rest of the way to Le Comptoir Senlisien. Fifteen minutes had passed since I entered the café. I sat beside the glass window, hunched over my laptop, and ordered jasmine tea while waiting for Monica to arrive.
The ambience of the café softened the long vigil. Mint-blue walls surrounded the banquet chairs, while stacks of premium tea were arranged like books along the shelves. The noise of the people inside, however, was loud enough to ruin the atmosphere. After an hour of waiting, I decided to leave the café.
Along the streets of Place de la Halle, I remained on the lookout, browsing shop windows while avoiding eye contact with the salespeople greeting me. My gaze stayed hidden behind polarized sunglasses. The oversized parka grew suffocating against my shoulders as the hours dragged. I adjusted the brim of my cap, my jaw tight, while my eyes continued scanning the street. When Monica failed to appear at her usual spot, I left the area and continued toward Rue de la Treille.
At the same pizza shop on the corner of Rue du Châtel, I sat quietly, pulled out a book, and waited. After a few pages, I noticed a woman in a grey sweatshirt. Her hair was tied in a messy bun. She carried a thermal flask and wore headphones.
I adjusted my glasses as I bit the inside of my tongue. It was Monica. I quickly rose from the chair, gathered my belongings, and matched her pace. As soon as she was on the leash, she would be the penitent Magdalene, leaving her concupiscent life.
She remained on the sidewalk without glancing behind. As the streetlights flickered on against the darkening sky, she abruptly turned and pushed through the doors of the café. I hesitated over whether I should follow her inside. Since my previous attempts at following her had been unsatisfactory, I decided that tonight would be different.
I exchanged the sunglasses for a pair of thick square glasses and entered the café once more. There, I sat two tables away from her and continued watching while setting up the laptop on the table. Monica never once turned her head or noticed me, even when I stood and fetched my drink from the counter.
She stretched her neck and arms before shifting in her seat. She pulled a gold compact and lipstick from her bag and retouched her makeup. Her fingertips looked like candles beneath the warm light. She patted her face with the powder puff, then fixed her hair. Before leaving the café, she dropped a few bills into the tip jar.
Back on the street, crowded with tourists, Monica walked slowly as she browsed the shop windows. Her features were gentle, almost delicate like Egyptian cotton. I remained a few meters behind her, absorbed by the slope of her slim shoulders and the line of her trapezius, imagining the path my fingers could follow lower along her figure. I lingered behind her among the thinning crowd until the stores closed. As I watched Monica leave on the bus, she remained completely oblivious, her headphones still on.
Three weeks of the same routine in Senlis had passed. I had become fixated on the strands of her hair and her composed exterior. That evening, I planned to approach her. I wore a charcoal blazer, trousers, and leather loafers.
The three-story buildings, made of weathered cream limestone, stood opposite the opera boutique, where I positioned myself and lingered for fifteen minutes. Eventually, Monica left the café, coffee in hand, waving goodbye to her colleagues. I instantly moved outside, leaving the boutique.
Meanwhile, I stood on the sidewalk with a newspaper tucked under my arm, a few blocks away from her. Her phone was pressed to her ear as she juggled a bag, a coffee, and a stack of folders. Monica’s keychain slipped from her bag, hitting the pavement with a soft clatter.
I walked past her and bent carefully to retrieve the keys, marked with a silver initial “M.” She was still inattentive. By the time she noticed me and looked up, her smile faded. Monica stepped closer. I could smell marigolds and citrus coming from her.
“Yes?” she asked, raising a brow and tucking her phone into her pocket.
“I think you dropped this,” I said, handing her the keys.
“Oh! Thank you,” she replied, taking them from my hand. She shifted her bag forward to put the keys away, but her grip faltered. The coffee splashed across her white blouse in a dark, messy bloom.
“Shit!” she cried, bending down to pick up the scattered papers on the ground.
A passerby took a few glances at the commotion, then turned and walked away. I quickly offered a hand. “Let me help you,” I said, moving to her side and picking up the folders and papers on the ground.
She let out a sharp sigh, staring at her blouse. “Great… just great.”
“Here,” I said, offering the handkerchief I pulled from my pocket.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the handkerchief from my hand. “I’ll return this in a moment. I’m just going to clean up in the bathroom.”
“Sure,” I said, sitting on a chair outside the establishment.
After twenty minutes, Monica returned and handed back the mouchoir.
“Again, thank you,” she muttered, sitting across from me as she organized her belongings.
“No problem. I just wanted to help,” I replied, smiled faintly as I crossed my legs.
“I can’t go into a meeting like this,” she sighed, glancing at her blouse. “I don’t have time to go home and change.”
“Maybe I could help you,” I said, gesturing toward the nearby boutique.
“No, I’ve already troubled you enough.” She shook her head.
“You’re no bother,” I said, resting my arms on the table. “There’s a boutique over there if you want something quick.”
“What? No, you don’t have to,” she said, exhaling as she tried to smooth her blouse.
“It’s fine,” I said, adjusting my tie. “I just wanted to help.”
Monica sat for a moment, checking her phone while her reflection lingered in the glass beside her. She looked like a sullen Magdalene from a Caravaggio painting. She exhaled slowly before responding. I found myself hoping she would accept my offer without hesitation. My grip tightened on the chair as I waited.
“Hmph… okay,” she said. “But I’ll pay you back. This weekend, when I get my salary.”
“No problem,” I said, clearing my throat.
When we reached the boutique, its front was painted deep red. It stood near a salon. Monica remained beside me, her attention fixed on the mannequin display dressed in a pink-sleeved blouse and red body bag.
“Let me help you with your things,” I muttered, stretching out my hands toward her. “I’ll just wait for you on the sidewalk. By the way, I’m Andre. Here, this should cover the price.”
She did not respond. Her expression remained stiff as she studied me for a moment before taking the bill and entering the store. I scoffed as soon as she disappeared from view. She was trying to read me, yet she accepted anyway. While waiting, I went to the sushi bar just across from the boutique.
When Monica stepped outside, I waved at her. She was wearing the blouse she had just bought.
“Thank you, Andre, for helping me. I’ll take the receipt. I’ll pay you, okay?” she said, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. “And before I forget, I’m Monica. How can I repay you? Do you have online banking?”
“I don’t have that. But perhaps we can meet again somewhere, if you like,” I said, scratching the back of my ear. Monica’s eyes widened.
“You don’t have that? Why?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Unfortunately, there was a problem with my online banking,” I said, my palms beginning to sweat as I swallowed.
She pursed her lips, then smiled. “Well, that sucks. So, what do we do?”
“I’m not sure, sorry if this has been an inconvenience,” I said, lowering my voice. “I guess, you don’t have to repay me.”
Monica looked away, her gaze following the people walking along the sidewalk. Then she turned back to me, pulled out a notebook, tore a page, and slid it toward me.
“No! That’s not an option. Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Write your number here,” she said, handing me the paper and a pen. “If I don’t get in touch, you can find me at Le Comptoir Senlisien. I go there most afternoons or evenings.”
“Sure,” I said, writing my number on the paper.
“Andre, I don’t want to sound judgmental, but do you do this often? With other girls?” Monica asked suddenly, letting out a nervous laugh and waving a hand. “Just a thought.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, furrowing my brows and slipping my hands into my pockets.
Monica didn’t answer. She just smiled.
I lowered my head slightly, holding her gaze. “Tell me, I’m curious.”
“Never mind,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was just curious. Don’t take it personally.”
“Okay. If you say so,” I replied, smiled back.
“Yeah… well, I really have to go now. Thank you again for helping me,” she said, nodding. Monica hailed a cab and waved goodbye.
Back at the manor, I sat on the couch, savoring the classical concerto filling the living room. My eyes felt heavy, almost drifting to sleep, when my secondary phone rang. It was an unknown number. I swiped to answer.
“Hello,” I said, dazed, my eyes flickering toward the lampshade.
“Hey, it’s me, Monica.” Her voice shattered the music from the record player.
“Oh, hi, Monica! What’s up?” I asked, shifting to the side of the couch and leaning back. “I didn’t expect you to call.”
“Nothing much. Why’d you think I wouldn’t call?” she asked. “So, I was thinking about our previous conversation.”
“I thought… you know, I might have given you the wrong first impression,” I said, scratching my forehead. “Sorry. Please continue.”
“Yeah… um, did I offend you?” she asked, her voice cutting sharply through the earpiece. “You seemed a little off before I left.”
“No, you didn’t. I was just taken aback,” I replied quickly. “Why would you think that? I might just come off as weird sometimes. It wasn’t my intention, so I’m sorry.”
“No, no, you’re not weird. It was just so sudden when you offered to buy me a blouse,” she said. “I was curious if you’re just nice or if you engineered the whole situation just to get my attention.”
“Why would you think that?” I asked, my pulse quickening. “Why didn’t you just refuse the offer?”
“I don’t know,” she said. A soft clatter of paper sounded in the background. “Well, you have a point. I was being cautious and all that. Let’s forget the whole thing.”
“Sure,” I mumbled, standing up and walking to the fridge.
“So, do you want us to meet at the café?” she asked. “Or you can suggest somewhere. Just make it around Senlis.”
“We can do Le Gril Des Barbares,” I suggested.
“O-okay. See you there, Andre,” she said before ending the call.
After the call, I immediately called the bistro to make an early reservation on weekend. Before finally retiring for the rest of the night.
Early Friday morning at the hospital, I sat in front of my laptop reviewing the ward list and patient handovers for the afternoon, including possible abscesses or hematomas. I continued documenting as my assistant called me on the intercom.
“Doctor Hoffmann,” she said. “Mr. Murray has scheduled a check-up, moving it from Monday to Tuesday. I’ve also updated your calendar regarding the changes. Thanks.”
“Thanks, Claire,” I said, signing some files and setting them neatly to the side.
At lunch, I stopped by a local brasserie for a sandwich to go and returned to the hospital. I had not seen Sophie for a month. From what I heard; she had taken extended leave to care for her mother. It was better than seeing her gossiping or becoming a pest here.
The rest of the afternoon was busy, and I never made it back to the ENT office to finish my lunch. The sandwich had gone stale, the lettuce had dried out, so I ended up throwing it in the bin. Every time the pager beeped, I had to leave the office immediately. One nurse fumbled when I asked her to hand over the suction and instead passed me a micro-forceps. Even the anesthesiologist sighed at her incompetence. After the operation, I reported her to the OR nurse manager. She blocked me in the hallway and pleaded with me not to proceed, but it was too late. The nurse sat hunched outside the office, crying and gripping a handkerchief. The wall clock chimed eight times, signaling the end of my shift. I looked at her as I left the hospital.
On Saturday evening, my clothes were already laid out on the bed as I showered. It was a special night, and a tailored blazer, button-down shirt, and beige chinos had been prepared. I took a perfume from the cabinet and dabbed a few drops at the back of my neck. Sicilian citrus, lavender, and rosemary lingered in the air. When I returned to the closet, I picked up my gradient glasses.
I stepped out of the manor, leaving it shrouded in darkness. I drove to the public parking lot and took a coach to Senlis. The trip lasted an hour before I reached my destination.
The restaurant’s counter and walls were painted in neutral tones, while the interior was styled in a full medieval aesthetic. Arches, wooden tables, and chairs were carved from dark, heavy oak. Beneath them lay a polished stone floor, its pale beige surface speckled with fine grit that seemed to swallow the sound of footsteps. I looked around, taking in the interior as I approached the reception.
“Hi, reservation for Andre.”
“Oui, let me check the list,” he said, looking at the computer. “Yes, you do have a reservation for two.”
“Yes.” I nodded.
The receptionist called the server’s attention. “Table for two.”
“Oui.” The server walked over and led me to the table.
“Thank you,” I said, following him.
Walking down the aisle to our table, I noticed the restaurant was crowded. Couples were chatting, and others were laughing loudly. The air smelled of a mixture of aromas from the kitchen, grilled steak and sausages, with a subtle hint of cinnamon, amber, and patchouli. When we reached the table, I pulled the chair and seated, surveying the area. Before the server left, he served the Yves Loison chilled in an ice bucket, along with two wine glasses.
“Merci,” I said, while I was settling the napkin on my lap.
I caught sight of Monica as she entered the restaurant, wearing a tight red dress that accentuated her hourglass figure. Her hair was in a French twist, with a few strands left loose to frame her face. I raised my hand to get her attention. When she reached our seat, I stood, pulled out the chair, and gestured for her to take a seat.
“Thanks,” Monica murmured as she sat on the chair, fixing the pleats of her dress.
Once more, I called the server over. He was busy attending to another table before turning his attention to us. He approached our table, handed us the menus, and asked for our order.
“Have you decided on your order?” the server asked, his attention on Monica. He held a notepad and pen, waiting.
“Salade Parmesane, s’il vous plaît, and a martini cocktail. Thank you.” She smiled at him, while the server had written down the order.
“And for monsieur?” the server said politely.
Turning to the server, I said, “Poisson du moment et crème brûlée. Merci.”
The server headed back to the kitchen, leaving the two of us. Monica pulled a few bills from her purse and handed them over with the receipt.
“Again, thank you for helping out last time,” she said with a smile, taking the glass as I poured the champagne. “So, Andre, what are you up to?”
“Nothing much. I’ve been busy with work. How about you?” I replied, my fingers touching the side of my chin as my grey eyes lingered on her.
“What do you mean, work? What work?” she asked, her fingers tracing the table linen.
“I work in international logistics,” I replied, holding a glass in my hand. “What about you?”
“Ah, logistics. I’m an assistant at a tech start-up,” she responded, her gaze shifting toward the incoming server.
The server returned with the salad and a martini garnished with two olives, as well as the poisson du moment and the crème brûlée.
“So, how was the meeting?” I asked, slicing a portion of the fish on my plate.
She laughed before replying. “Well, it was fine. The client was enthusiastic about the presentation, of course. He was quite a character, but he still signed the contract. Um, just a curious question, are you from here or just here for business?”
“I’m just here for business,” I replied, adjusting my tailored blazer.
Monica pursed her lips. “I see… A tourist. Interesting. Where do you live?”
“In Paris,” I answered, still looking into her eyes.
“Oh, so you do live in France. I hope to visit Paris one day,” she said, biting her lip. “Haven’t been there yet.”
Monica had not been in Paris. That was news; she was probing me. I had gotten her interested enough to continue asking questions. I had not noticed how her eye color changed every time the light touched them. So, she was hazel-eyed; her lashes fluttered more than any I had ever seen. Like Madame d’Aguesseau de Fresnes. Though the Fräulein had the shoulders of the woman from Bouguereau’s La Vague.
Monica’s cheeks flushed after three glasses of martini. Her voice was slurred, and she rubbed her neck. The strap of her dress slipped from her shoulder, her freckled skin glowing in the light. I swallowed the heat, restraining myself. All I could visualize was her dress torn apart. I was shaking as I reached across the table for the wine glass and took a sip.
“Uh, Monica. It’s getting late,” I said, looking at the time. “Do you want me to take you home?”
“Yes, I feel like my head is spinning,” she responded, her hand on her forehead.
I took her hand and carefully assisted her out of the restaurant. It was already pouring outside.
“I forgot to bring my umbrella,” she murmured, her voice heavy with weariness.
I pulled a collapsible umbrella out of my bag and shielded her from the rain. I leaned close to her, and our arms brushed as we walked along the sidewalk.
“Thank you,” she said as we reached the bus stop.
We caught a coach bus home. It was nearly empty, save for two passengers arguing in the back and a man asleep in the corner.
“What music do you usually listen to?” she asked abruptly, breaking the silence.
“Mostly jazz,” I replied. My mood began to shift, but I had to keep up with her.
Monica tilted her head, leaning on the headrest; she closed her eyes and did not talk until we reached the stop. I touched her arms, enough to wake her up. She was groggy, trying to open her eyes. She covered her mouth when she yawned before turning to my side.
“You’re still here.” Her eyes gazed at me.
“Yes Monica, and we’re here at your stop,” I said, while I assisted her down the steps of the bus.
When we reached the entrance of her apartment, Monica leaned closer to me. Her eyes blinked.
“Thank you, Andre,” she said, pausing at the entrance before vomiting on the sidewalk. “I’m sorry.”
Monica pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped her face. “I’m really sorry. I must go now.”
But before she left, I immediately followed her and held the door. “When am I going to see you again?”
“We’ll see,” she responded with her heavy-lidded eyes. “Sorry, can you move back? I smell horrible.”
“It’s okay, but are you free on weekends?” I pressed even further, still holding the entrance door.
“Uh… I’ll check,” she replied, licking her lips, still with her droopy eyes. “I’ll call you.”
“Okay, we can meet at the Marché sur l’Eau. I want to see you again,” I continued, as I let go of the entrance door.
Monica nodded, smiling as she turned and entered the apartment stumbling.
On my way back, I was ruminating, checking my phone to see if I should leave her a message. I wanted to repeat the location where we should meet and maybe coax her that she had already agreed to meet there. My legs were jittering from the thoughts. Her shoulders were the only thing I could think about; the strap sliding down her skin and that space between. I had so many ideas I wanted to do with them.
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